The Whole Person
by KayteaEM
Summary: Five unconventional ways Hannibal and Will worshiped each other's bodies.


**Title: **The Whole Person

**Fandom: **_Hannibal_

**Characters: **Will and Hannibal

**Disclaimer: **Don't own! (But oh, what I'd do if I did...)

**A/N: **Some of these scenes may not be to everyone's taste so if you don't like, don't read. However, if you're in the _Hannibal _fandom my guess is that your taste is a little skewed to begin with :D Enjoy!

* * *

1.

7:47pm a pressure blooms around the bridge of his nose before seeping into his cheeks. Will is seated in Hannibal's office, resting up as much as he's able. He's got both eyes closed, head tipped back against the chair, barely hearing the sharp inhale across from him. Will begins to sit up before a hand steadies him across the brow.

"No, no. Keep your head tipped back."

Hannibal's fingers curl against the underside of his chin, his other hand smoothing brown curls. Will does as he's told and melts lazily back into the leather. He does open his eyes however, and he can just make out a red sheen below eye level. Concentrating, he feels an unsteady drip soaking into his flannel.

"Nosebleed?" he asks. The muffled quality of his voice confirms it.

"Yes. Keep still, Will. I have a handkerchief—"

"Oh no." Will has seen those miniature squares. No doubt they cost more than his entire wardrobe. "Don't stain it."

Looking up at the ceiling he can't see Hannibal's face but he can feel the hesitation in his fingers. There's a transfer of air as he shifts from foot to foot.

"Will," he says, "you're bleeding quite heavily."

Oh. Stupid. Which costs more: the handkerchief or the furniture?

"Sorry. I'll just head to the bathroom—" Will winces into his friend's palm.

"I don't want you moving—"

"But I—"

"_Sit_."

He does, falling back against Hannibal's arm. The movement begins another flow of blood that runs heavy into his mouth. Instinctually, Will flicks his tongue out and takes a sample between his lips. It's saltier than he remembers but the rush of metal quickly overpowers any taste of the sea. A four-foot Will once bit a silver dollar to see if it was "real" – just like they did in the movies – and the flavor is exactly the same. He rolls his tongue and skims the back of his teeth.

It takes him a minute to realize that Hannibal is watching.

"I used to get these as a kid," Will blushes.

"That is not uncommon." Hannibal's voice sounds far away, distracted. Will tries to turn his head but the hand across his chin holds firm. It rests another second and then slips confidently down to his neck. "You're quite stubborn," Hannibal says. His presence feels closer.

"Sorry?"

"No handkerchief. Running off. You realize it's very rude to refuse help when it's offered, don't you?" Without any warning Hannibal is right in front of him, settling onto his knees. "You had the right idea," he murmurs before licking a bright strip of red off of Will's chin.

"_What—!_"

But Hannibal is even closer, upper body tucked against Will's collarbone. He tips his head further back and Will allows it, too stunned to really fight. Hannibal nuzzles his neck, sighing against his skin and Will begins to feel the skim of teeth. They run abrasive over his goose bumps, nipping at the tender spots near his vocal cords. Will finds himself arching upwards into Hannibal's waistcoat, giving him better access to the blood that's made it off his face. Hannibal's tongue flicks out again, like a serpent's, making another clean sweep under the collar of his shirt. He suckles at the fabric and pulls blood away from the threads but just as quickly he's back at Will's face, catching streams along his cheek and splatters behind his ear. He hums while he eats and it takes a while for Will to realize that he's actually speaking. Most of it isn't in English and it's only later that he will associate Hannibal's endless words with recipes: wines, sauces, consistency, seasoning, quality, innovation. Will hears a long mantra on the temperature of meat as Hannibal laps directly under his nose. He nods mindlessly, his own temperature rising, and snakes a hand around Hannibal's neck.

All the while Will has his eyes closed. Time is lost again. He only knows it's over when Hannibal deliberately pushes away, settling back into a kneeling position. Will hears his own panting, the heave and pull of his lungs. His face tingles with the sticky residue of blood and Hannibal's saliva. There's also a cold patch where the Doctor's body used to be and Will whimpers into it, curling until that empty space doesn't seem so large. This is what he opens his eyes to.

Hannibal is indeed kneeling, both legs tucked underneath him like he was attending a ceremony. His own face is smeared with Will's blood. A great deal has gotten onto his cheeks where he'd been nuzzling and of course there are rivulets around his mouth. Hannibal is in the process of pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, the one that was rejected, and bringing it to his lips before he notices Will. He pauses, a smile emerging beneath the blood. He tilts the handkerchief questioningly.

"Unless you'd like to return the favor?" he says.

Will would. Will does. He moves to the floor to better gain access, licking his own blood from Hannibal's lips.

* * *

2.

Will is skimming Hannibal's body. Having long ago memorized what is there he now carefully notes what is absent.

Hannibal's body holds no scars. Will meticulous explores his skin but can find nothing raised, puckered, or discolored. He grasps his friend's hands, desperately searching for the white line that would indicate a slip with his scalpel. Everything is tanned and smooth.

"I fear that all my scars are in my mind." Hannibal stretches luxuriously and Will can't tell if he's joking or not.

He can find no birthmarks, nothing that would be photographed in the event of an arrest. No age spots. No freckles. Hannibal's body is seamless and Will finds himself thinking back to the gravy he served with a roast turkey last night: a thick, carbon-copy stream. Will presses his nose into the space between Hannibal's ribs and thinks about his own wounds. He thinks about asking Hannibal to cut him. That, at least, he could trust to scab over and heal.

Instead, Will idly traces his nipples before jumping up to Hannibal's ear. His fingers play with the lobes.

"No piercings?" he asks.

Hannibal huffs as if the very idea offends him.

"I got mine done years ago." Will pulls at his own lobe, the pinprick still visible. "Let it close up though. People don't really associate piercings with teaching and FBI work."

"Nor with opera and white tie dining." Hannibal smirks.

"You'd look good with something simple though. Just a stud. We could match it to your cufflinks." Will laughs. "Wait here."

They're curled in Will's own bed; a rarity if ever there was one. More often than not Hannibal insists that they spend their free hours in his – admittedly – more lavish home. A long night spent in the lab and the need to feed Will's dogs had coaxed Hannibal through his door but keeping him there had been the more entertaining challenge. Three hours later, Will had tainted his entire new roll of fishing line. Now, he pushes the toys aside, sliding from the bed. He feels Hannibal's nails raking against his wrist but he pulls away. Will jumps four dogs and is out the room before he can truly protest.

Out in the living room, under his workbench, is a tackle box filled solely with fishing lures. Its taken Will years to fill it but when he pops the top open it overflows, seven of them tumbling out onto the hardwood. It's a messy collection of baubles, most of them hopelessly tangled amongst each other. Some have feathers. Others have beads. A few of the more complex projects are miniature replicas of the food source for the fish he's hunting. All of them are, by necessity, bright and colorful.

Will chooses one with a single, thin hook and snaps off the body. He grabs ice, alcohol, matches, and soap before heading back to his room. He finds Hannibal sitting up in bed, confirmed suspicions hardening his face.

"You're joking," he growls.

"I sat through that boring violin performance," comes the response.

"You think you can guilt me into this?"

"Lie back."

"Really, Will—"

"_Lie back_."

He's getting better at giving orders and Hannibal knows it. He also knows that Will knows that the only reason his shoulders are now touching the headboard is to reward him. Hannibal spreads his arms out to the side, vulnerable. Will crawls over with his supplies and straddles his hips.

"Is that truly the best position?" Hannibal asks.

"I need to make sure you don't move when I hurt you."

Hannibal smiles and sinks further into the mattress.

Will starts by licking the ear. He nibbles the lobe, sucking on it until it turns bright pink. He takes his time. All the attention only makes the area more sensitive so it's with a satisfied hum that he finally hands Hannibal the ice pack, saying only, "I think you'll be needing this." Hannibal takes the offered towel and presses it daintily to his ear. The ice is already melting and the drops that run down his neck make them both shiver.

They wait. And wait. Will grinds their hips irregularly.

"I think it's numb," Hannibal murmurs.

"You sure?"

"Hm. Does it matter?"

"No." Will snatches the ice and tosses it away. It shatters across the floor and his dogs scramble for a taste. "I will sterilize it though," he says.

"How kind of you."

Will takes his time with this as well. He goes through most of the matches in an attempt to light one on Hannibal's thigh. By the time a flame springs up there are stubby friction burns dotted amongst his hair and his entire frame is squirming.

"There," Will says and holds his fishing hook up to the fire. They both watch the metal heating until sweat starts beading against his fingers. When the orange glow is just a tip from his fingernail Will blows, a spray of saliva dotting Hannibal's chest. He lazily smears a bead with his knuckles and they lock eyes until Will tosses the match away. "Onwards," he says and lunges forward.

Everything else is fast. Hannibal is pliant below him and it makes Will want to go go go. He grabs his head, turning it just gently enough that no important bones are snapped. The alcohol bottle is opened, contents poured excessively over skin. It wells in Hannibal's ear and he tries to shake like a dog but Will stills him. With a laugh he shoves the soap underneath and – hardly thinking about the placement – drives his hook through Hannibal's lobe.

He sucks in a breath; his hands skim the sheets. They're the only sounds Hannibal makes.

"All done," Will purrs. Despite his haste he was careful to only insert the tip. Hannibal would really be in pain if he'd added the barb.

"Do you have an earring for me?" Hannibal asks, voice like gravel.

Will leans over and pulls open his night table drawer. Inside are a handful of studs from his youth. He chooses one that is silver and sophisticated.

"I'll wear it to the next _La Traviata _performance," Hannibal murmurs, "for all to see." The promise sets a growl in Will's throat.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yes."

One month later, he does.

* * *

3.

Hannibal makes Will cologne for Christmas.

He researches cold enfleurage for two weeks before buying a large sheet of glass and a great deal of cocoa butter. Hannibal had thought about harvesting the fat himself but after much consideration decided that there was enough to do in choosing the scent.

After a month of searching he eventually finds a man who covets sailboats, smelling of wood and the sea. Hannibal kills him quickly, as always more concerned with what his body has to offer after its death. He then takes his time in shearing the flesh from his thighs; long, thick strips that fit snugly into the glass he's been saving. Hannibal replaces the meat every three days – calf, arms, lower back – and after four weeks he has an excellent collection of enfleurage pomade (as well as a few extra strips for hors d'oeuvres). Distilling the essence takes another week but every drop he collects is accompanied by a possessive hum of approval.

Hannibal bottles the cologne, corks it, and ties it with a pretty green ribbon. His fingers brush Will's as the gift is exchanged.

"It has a ship on the bottle," is the first thing Will says.

It does. Hannibal knows a little German tailor who, along with creating the most exquisite pieces with cloth, is also quite skilled with a paintbrush. For the promise of a packed, homemade lunch he painted a beautiful armed schooner. The side, in miniscule letters, says, _U.S.S. Graham. _

"You do seem overly fond of bottles with ships on them." Hannibal drawls, "Is it wrong of me to cater to your preferences?"

"Mm." Will nudges the cork out, tipping the bottle forward. Hannibal notes, with approval, that he smells the cologne in the same way he was taught to smell wine.

"What is it?" he asks.

"What do you smell?"

Will chuckles, rocking forward and back on his heels. The cologne tilts like the deck of a ship.

"Well…" he traces a finger around the neck of the bottle. "I smell salt and musk. A liiiiitle bit of fish. It's tangy." Will catches Hannibal's eyes; he's not done. "There's also fear of course. Desperation—no. No. More like resignation. And blood." The tip of his nose meets the rim. He breathes in deeply. "AB positive. How rare. Thank you, Hannibal."

He doesn't know which is more rewarding: Will's obvious appreciation of the gift or the growing evidence of their empathetic link. If he's delved so deep into Hannibal's mind that he's embracing his sense of smell… they've indeed grown close.

"And what of my gift, Will?" Hannibal asks. "I can't help but note that you have haven't brought anything with you."

Will flicks the glass, watching the cologne ripple. "That's because I already know what you want."

"Oh?"

"Although, it's not really a specific 'what.' More of a 'this,' 'that,' or possibly 'the other thing.' It depends."

"On?"

"What you want."

Hannibal wants to smile. He doesn't. "You just said that you knew what I wanted."

"I do." Will saunters forward, handing the cologne back. Their fingers brush again and then tighten. "What I really need to know is what you want done with this. Or, more specifically, what do you want done with this _to me_."

Hannibal hefts the bottle, considering. "Shall I paint it on you?" he asks.

"If you want."

"Make you drink it?"

Will grins. "Sure. Don't know about the 'making me' bit though."

"Meaning that I couldn't make you or you're already willing?"

Will shrugs his shoulders. Hums.

"Or perhaps," Hannibal steps closer, "I should open up your wrists – just a slit – and pour the cologne inside. Would you scream?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"No."

"Well then. Shall we find out?"

"Yes."

Hannibal pulls his lapel back, slowly, so as not to startle Will. In his inside pocket is a four-inch knife with a gold handle. He brings it parallel to the cologne.

"Kneel," Hannibal says.

Will does, but it's an excruciating descent. It's like he's wading through molasses. When his knees hit the carpet there's the barest hesitation before they sink fully into the fibers and it takes even longer for his muscles to relax. He's submissive, eventually, but his body language screams that Hannibal should grateful. This is his gift.

"And what a splendid gift it is," Hannibal murmurs.

He tips the bottle and catches a drop on his knife. His tongue flicks out, searching for a taste. Will is right, there's an unexpected tang. He can't wait to douse him in the scent; fuse it with his bloodstream. Their play will stain the Oriental rug and Hannibal is already picturing the new patterns that will form.

He toys with the bowed curls under his hand, thinking about cutting them off.

"Take off your shirt, Will. Bare your arms." Hannibal says. "Oh, and happy holidays."

* * *

4.

There are times when Hannibal is rude.

Being human – in biology if nothing else – it is nearly unavoidable. Often those in menial jobs are unforgivably lax and Hannibal finds himself demanding results in a tone inappropriate for polite society, no matter how justified. Those men and women become brisket, steeped in a burgundy-orange sauce. More recently, irritation arises due to the endless stream of "available" women. They swarm him at the opera, long nails sinking into his arm. Or the ballet, where the presence of leotards and tights encourages them to wear their own revealing clothing. One "lady" in particular, with a slit longer than her leg, alternated between offering her daughter and offering herself. Neither was appealing. Sadly, he could not partake of these women – either in the way they imagined or at his own table. Their high profiles discouraged any… retaliation, at least of the culinary variety. He could still discredit them through rumors and a well-tweaked lie though. However, while these little projects were indeed satisfying Hannibal would be the first to admit that they were not respectable.

Thus, along with "cultured," "elegant," and "educated," another adjective that Hannibal applied to his person was "hypocritical." He could be rude, yes. Yet never before had he held himself to the same standards as his food. Obviously, there would be no repercussions for his own faux pas.

Will Graham changed that.

"You're really annoying, you know that?"

Will is the poster boy for a petulant child, slumped as he is at Hannibal's kitchen counter. He has a tall glass of hot cocoa beside him – appropriate, given his current mental state – and he taps his spoon endlessly against the rim. If Will chips it he'll be begging forgiveness in a collar and chains.

"Really, _really _annoying."

Hannibal sighs. "So you've said."

He hears the spoon skitter away from Will's hand. If he turned around, which he won't, he'd see bits of cocoa dotting his previously spotless counter.

"Will—"

"It was just lunch!"

"_I_ made you lunch." Coals in the pit of Hannibal's stomach begin to glow.

"Ah. Should have been more specific. It was lunch with _Alana. _That's the problem, isn't it?"

Hannibal dices carrots. Viciously.

"Of course not," he says, "I'm very fond of Dr. Bloom."

"So long as she's not feeding me."

"Really, Will."

"Or talking to me. Or cuddling up to my dogs. Or, you know, _existing_ near me."

He was right, in a cranky, exaggerated sort of way. Hannibal had been even less inclined to share Will's attention after they'd begun their… relationship. He hadn't lied though; he did have a great deal of respect for Alana. Just not for the watery sludge she called soup. Or her pink chicken reeking of salmonella. Let those culinary experiments stay within the confines of her kitchen and out of Will's stomach. Let her lingering affections stay there as well.

"You know what it was?" Will continues, leaning up and over the counter. "It was _rude_, Hannibal! As Alana herself would say: shockingly rude! And _you_ can explain why I stood her up for a two week lunch date." With that Will drains the rest of his hot chocolate – he's not letting that go to waste, no matter how mad he is – and stomps out of the room. Hannibal can hear him grumbling all the way to the door.

He continues dicing carrots for tomorrow's salad, letting the cutting board overflow. His hands work automatically: cut, cut, cut.

Was it? Was his demand for Will's company that disrespectful? Yes. Now, having already received what he'd wanted, Hannibal could see that. Tricking Will into abandoning his date, encouraging him to race here in a panic, that may have been a tad… extreme. He did not always enjoy causing Will fear, after all. And while he would not apologize for breaking Alana's date he did regret breaking Will's. Hannibal recognized the odd selectiveness in that thinking yet did nothing to discourage it. It simply was. Alana's disappointment was a necessity, Will's, an unfortunate consequence.

Perhaps he did owe Will some penance. Something somber. Genuine.

Hannibal chopped. He'd been incredibly rude today. What was to be done about that?

"I made you dinner."

"You always make me dinner."

Will sits at his table, arms crossed and expression sour. He knows that Hannibal is trying to apologize and they both know that he won't forgive easily. A part of him will always love Alana and that part hisses at Hannibal for denying him her company. Nevertheless, the more respectful side of Will picks up his fork. He doesn't eat though.

"What is it?" he asks instead.

Hannibal seats himself but, Will only just notices, there is no plate in front of him. Even when he'd apologized with food in the past – cooking Will such "plebeian" things as burgers and chili – he always joined in the meal. Consuming his own, inferior dishes was part of the punishment. But this time there was nothing but smooth wood in front of Hannibal. He folds his hands.

Will looks down at his own plate. The meal is gorgeous but oddly small, even by Hannibal's gourmet standards. There is a bed of salad, dotted with a vibrantly red vinaigrette, and on top are six delicate slices of meat. Each is no more than half an inch long but they are seared to mouth-watering perfection. Still, Will pokes one suspiciously.

"What exactly am I about to eat?" he asks again.

"Pork."

Will's head shoots up. They live in a world of double entendres and their "pork" is rarely pork. Anger churns in him, that Hannibal would think _this_ was the best way to apologize.

"Wh—"

But Hannibal shakes his head, holding up a hand for silence. That same hand is turned until he has access to his cufflink, which is slowly undone. Will watches, fascinated, as pale skin is suddenly revealed. Outside the bedroom Hannibal is nothing but impeccably dressed and to mar his suit now; at the dinner table no less… Will swallows, easing up until his thighs press against the wood. Hannibal notes the change but keeps going, carefully rolling his cuff once, twice, three times. Halfway through the second roll Will sees white peeking out: a bandage. It covers three inches of Hannibal's lower arm and he strokes it, smiling at Will.

He doesn't say anything but Will can see it. The pendulum swings and his view of Hannibal is as clear as any crime scene. He waits, at least ten minutes after Will has left. The vegetables still need to be chopped. Chop, chop, chop. And partway through another carrot he decides. The knife is washed, thoroughly; doused in the wine at hand. He spreads a towel, grabs another to stem the blood, and quickly slices down the length of his arm. The strip is thin but tender. It will make an excellent meal for one.

Hannibal nods. "Eat, Will," he insists.

Will does. The meat tastes of thyme and forgiveness.

* * *

5.

7:47pm a pressure blooms around Will's stomach. He ignores it, just as he ignores the fever he's been developing over the past three hours. That's normal, at least for him. It's only when he vomits from Hannibal's balcony that he admits that something might be wrong. His stomach contents splattering desk, chair, and Oriental rug attests to that.

When the pain becomes acute and the vomiting more frequent they rush to the hospital. Hannibal, ever the gentleman, politely runs the red lights and weaves between those going under 80. The unnatural whiteness of the emergency room, the declaration, "appendicitis," Hannibal's quiet panic. As they wheel him away Will contemplates how normal it all is. He could be any patient and Hannibal could be any loved one.

In fact, the next two weeks are strikingly normal. Will undergoes surgery; he recovers. There's a few days where he does nothing but sleep and watch the weather channel. When Hannibal comes to visit he brings actual chicken noodle soup – nothing but broth, a store bought breast, and some herbs. It's unexpected. Hannibal sits in the plastic chair next to his bed and Will takes his hand, pulling it under his shirt. He encourages him to press against the bruising scar; begs Hannibal to make him squirm with pain as well as pleasure. But all he does is trace around the wound with feather light touches.

"I'm not a stupid flower," Will says. His voice is heavy with painkillers.

Hannibal raises the book he's reading all the way up to his face. If Will weren't so hazy he'd realize that he was hiding a smile. "A flower, Will?" he asks.

"Mmmm. Delicate."

"While you do possess pleasingly delicate features you are ultimately correct: metaphorically you are in no way delicate. Not even your mental state, Will, though I know you sometimes have reason to doubt this."

Will nuzzles into the pillow, ignoring the barrage of words. "Can't we play?" he whines.

"No. Rest now."

So he does and things remain disturbingly normal. He's released from the hospital with no complications. Jack gives him another week off in order to fully recover and does so in a professional manner. People send him cards, but only the kinds people he'd want to receive a card from. Will keeps searching the growing pile for one signed by a serial killer, or one written in blood, but it never comes. They all have beautiful cursive and balloons.

It's driving him nuts.

So, Will decides to shake things up a bit.

"I got you a present."

They are, once again, seated at Hannibal's dinner table. Hannibal had noticed the bag when Will first walked in but hadn't commented on it. Now, Will pushes his plate aside and hefts the bag up in its place. It's a heavy-duty tote with – surprise, surprise – a dog on the front. Hannibal hears the clink of glass as it settles.

"Did you now?" Will's last gift had been his complete submission but this, obviously, is more tangible. How intriguing. "Do I get to open it?" Hannibal asks.

"Yep." Will pushes the bag forward. It takes two hands to move.

There is no unwrapping with this gift, only sliding the bag away. Even before the weave is removed though, Hannibal can smell it: alcohol and formaldehyde. It's a thick smell that's overcoming the veal he's prepared and combined with the weight of the present Hannibal can guess what he's receiving. Sure enough it's a large, glass jar. Inside is Will's appendix.

"You wouldn't _believe_ what it took to get a-hold of this," Will smirks.

Hannibal traces the organ's movement; it bobs like a fishing lure.

"I would enjoy hearing such a story," he says.

"Mm hmm. And I thought you'd like this more than a ring."

Hannibal pauses, then resumes stroking the glass.

His eyes never stray from his gift yet Will can feel the weight of his gaze. Perhaps that's not so surprising. Hannibal is, technically, still gazing at him.

As if reading his thoughts: "I do wish I could put this in my study; look at you all day long."

Will grins, lazy and feral. He pulls his cold veal back towards him and digs in. "Go ahead," he says.

Hannibal also begins to eat, maneuvering the jar so that it sits between them.

"You don't think my patients will notice?"

"Do you care if they do?"

"I do have a reputation to keep."

Will makes an indistinct noise but he's still grinning. "Just don't, you know, eat it." He taps the glass with his fork so a hollow ring sounds out. The appendix turns end over end. "Inflammation and all that. Spoiled goods."

He expects Hannibal's expression to be one of disgust – he's terribly finicky about the quality of his food – but he only looks contemplative. He too touches the glass with his fork, delicately. The tongs rest there until he shakes his head.

"That is not the point, Will." He says. "Consumption is only one form of worship. And your body, always, has deserved something special."

It's Will's turn to keep his silence.

"And are you going to follow up on that promise?" he finally asks. "Worship me?"

"Yes." There is nothing but candor in his voice. "But let us eat first."

So they do, and Hannibal does.


End file.
